


Polaroid

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: The Odalisque Timestamps [17]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, Photographs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3630807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"What will you use it for?" Will asks, amused, extending his arm to hold the picture out of reach. "I can't surrender it until I know. Will it be a memento? Something to show off? Something to dirty when you're in Europe and far away from me?" Will grins, tilts his head, asking without asking, and smiles wider when Hannibal slides his hand up Will’s extended arm to take the photo from him.</i>
</p>
<p>Will digs up his old Polaroid camera to play with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polaroid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Love_mooses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Love_mooses/gifts).



> A long-ago passing request-mention by the brilliant [FishyBeer](http://fishybeer.tumblr.com/), who talked about the boys taking photos of each other doing utterly mundane things like reaching for ice cream from the freezer or just looking sleepy in the morning.
> 
> How, _how_ , we ask you, could we resist that?

Hannibal does not lift his eyes when he hears bare footsteps clicking over the tile.

He does not lift his eyes when a lithe figure strides into his doorway, resting against a thin shoulder.

He does not lift his eyes when that figure purrs a high little hum at him.

He does, however, finally look up from his sketch when that figure takes a sudden step sideways to catch himself, though the ground certainly has not moved to unsettle him, and laughs.

"You are being disruptive."

Hannibal lowers his attention again when Will saunters closer, long unsteady strides carrying him near enough that he can lean against the desk and watch Hannibal's hand move in small, careful gestures across the paper.

"Now you are hovering," Hannibal notes, forcing his lips from the start of a smile into a stern line instead. He draws a breath - peat and fire, sticky sweet - and arches a brow. "And you are drunk." A pause, another sniff. "The Macallan. While I would praise your taste, I doubt it has little enough to do with that."

He sets down his pencil, and folds his hands together to raise his eyes and meet Will's own, bright blue and narrowed in delight.

"That bottle, from which you drink as though it were bathtub gin, is older than the two of us combined, and I should beat you blind for even looking at it."

Will licks his lip into his mouth, already red against his skin, always such a beautiful thing, this boy, and releases it with a smile. “I dunno why you keep things like that as long as you do," he hums, and Hannibal tilts his head just to regard him as Will slowly mimics the motion.

“Some vintages get only better with age,”

“It’s really old,” Will agrees. Hannibal presses his teeth together not to smile.

“It was," Hannibal hums and Will laughs, nodding.

“It was," he says, sprawling on the desk and holding up his hand, two fingers close together in a measure of space. “There’s a little bit left. Just a bit. Just for you.”

“Awful boy.”

Will smiles, cheeks warming. It’s so fond. “But why do you keep things for so long… and never drink them? If I hadn’t opened it, you wouldn’t have.”

“Perhaps for many years.”

“But why, that’s -” Will pushes up on his elbows again, nearly slipping, but surprisingly careful with not messing up the desk before him. “- that’s the same as keeping me and not fucking me for a few years. It’s silly. And counter productive. Even though I probably get better with age too,” Will grins, runs a hand through his hair. “Learning all these new things.”

“One might have hoped.” Hannibal snares the bottle carefully from Will’s absent grip, as much to prevent him from dropping it as to take a sip, and he skims a thumb over the aged label. “And yet no amount of years seem to have made you less an incorrigible brat than you were before.”

Will snorts a laugh and Hannibal’s own smile twitches upward, despite his admonitions. He scans the study for a clean glass, and finding none, sighs. “To wasted years,” he murmurs, before taking a sip. Scottish bogs and ancient wood, a slow-burning smolder that spreads across the tongue. It is a beautiful thing, and - he supposes - it is best to be enjoyed, rather than hoarded.

Although with his most prized possession, grinning at him with bottom lip held between white teeth, Hannibal can enjoy both of those things.

“Come sit,” Hannibal tells his boy. “Otherwise you will fall, and I will be most unhappy if you do damage to my desk.”

“But won’t that be disruptive?” Will asks, pushing himself to stand again and making his way with surprisingly graceful strides around the desk towards Hannibal.

“Entirely.”

“And if I come closer won’t I still be hovering,” Will gestures, catches himself and slips with careful limbs to straddle one of Hannibal’s thighs as he himself leans back against the desk, “while you work?”

“You are.”

Will grins, delighted and young. In truth, he had not meant to get drunk for any particular reason. He had opened the bottle to taste and kept tasting while reading in the sitting room before seeking company. He tries for the bottle again and finds it tugged away, even when he pouts, so he turns to the table instead, looks at the sketch Hannibal had been working on before Will had interrupted him.

On the page, Will’s head is ducked, knees drawn up supporting a book - currently undetailed with contents - and one hand up in his hair, wild curls sprouting seemingly from between his fingers. He’s in his glasses here, slightly down his nose, and his jaw is shifted a little to the side as though he’s thinking. He’s not frowning, but he looks almost sleepy in his contentment. The toes on one foot are curled in comfort and Will can see that Hannibal had not decided to grace him with clothes in this picture.

Just like that day he had forbidden the boy from dressing.

“You could take a photo, it’ll last longer,” Will teases, turning back to Hannibal and pushing up onto his toes when the man sets his own against the floor and lifts his leg, seeking to tease Will where he stands.

“And take far less time,” considers Hannibal. Wide hands wrap around narrow hips to drag the boy astride his thigh, nearly shivering as little hands press against his stomach and Will perches on his leg. “Less time to weigh your beauty against your insolence, your wisdom against your destructiveness,” he murmurs, with a glance to the bottle on the desk, only three fingers left of the rare, aged liquor.

He reaches past and takes another sip, returns it to the desk and snares Will’s wrist when he reaches for it as well, to turn their palms together and lace their fingers. “Less time to consider the strong line of your jaw, the delicacy of your mouth. Less time to trace each curve of your body in pencil and remember every time that I have touched it.”

Rocking his leg upward, Will rubs back against him in response and Hannibal hums, eyes hooded and cheeks already flush from the strength of the scotch. “You are muse and distraction both,” Hannibal decides. “A devil, certainly, in angel’s guise.” He leans back in his chair, letting his hands skim down to Will’s thighs, clad in soft white linen pants. “But there is something to be said for -” a pause, a pique of amusement “- photography. To catch the light in your eyes when you consider doing something particularly obscene.”

Will hums, turning into the soft touches, not sexual, just intimate. Warm. Deliberate. He loves Hannibal always, but alcohol-warmed is a favorite. He grows entirely affectionate, seeking hands and sloppy kisses, whispered truths. They talk a lot, Will thinks, when they are together, in any way. In study, over dinner, after sex, before sex, during...

"I have a camera," Will admits suddenly, squeezing his fingers with Hannibal's and stroking his thumb up and down the thin skin of his hand. "I bought it abroad. Old little Polaroid thing in a shop display in Madrid. The film had to be ordered in."

He bites his lip and his eyes narrow with the warmth of his smile. "I have some of you. When you don't know I'm taking one."

"Quite a feat, with a Polaroid," Hannibal hums, leaning in to breathe in the youthful abandon of his boy as Will wriggles and smiles.

"I wanted something tangible for when you went off island."

"You don’t remember me otherwise?" Hannibal laughs, and Will shakes his head, frowns, nods, shakes his head again and presses a hand to his face with a laugh, drunk and happy and warm. 

"I remember," he replies, indignant and grinning, "but I like to keep moments, sometimes. And I can't -" He turns to draw fingers delicate over Hannibal’s sketch, awed by it and warmly delighted that he finds his likeness beneath Hannibal’s pen so often.

Hannibal watches Will’s hand spread across the page, hardly touching it, and images it splaying across his belly, bare but for the scar that curves across it. A snapshot of the older man - naked, perhaps, sleep - in one hand, himself in the other, tugging his cock in languid pulls and whimpering Hannibal’s name.

He blinks, and returns, eyes narrowing pleased as he returns Will’s hand to his own, and presses it against his chest.

“Though the obscenity of your body is rather etched in memory, perhaps I will try my hand at capturing you on film as I have so many other ways,” considers Hannibal, hands pressing to the small of Will’s back to bring him near enough that Hannibal can kiss his chest, drag his teeth across it. “Go and get it, spoiled boy, and return to me bare.” A pause, and a smile catches in his words. “I will finish the scotch that you have desecrated.”

Will smiles, bright and slips from Hannibal's leg to stumble with a laugh for the door. He had kept the camera because it was entirely beautiful, even if film for it had no longer existed, Will would have kept it for how it looked. But he had been told that film was coming, that he should stock up if he was leaving Spain. So he had. Enough to last him Europe, and enough left, now, for silly photographs between them.

He finds it in the closet, in one of the deep amusingly designer storage boxes there, and brings it and the film back with him. In the hallway he remembers the request to be bare, and pulls the cord on his pants to loosen them, to let them slip down his legs before he wriggles free and continues on. In the doorway, he stops, Hannibal back at the sketch, fingers light over a part of it to smudge the pencil, and Will carefully - with deliberate motions to not drop anything - loads film into the camera and aims it to snap.

The mechanical sound is so gratifying, and Will grins when Hannibal looks up, waiting for the white photo to pull free before setting a corner between his teeth and walking closer. He has several photos of Hannibal, some of him cooking, others of him on the beach or reading in the garden. Gentle candids of a life entirely more ordinary than Will has ever expected he would live, let alone enjoy.

He takes the photo to gently shake, allowing the camera to be taken from him when he’s close enough for it to be, and settles as he had been, legs spread to straddle, as they both watch the film develop.

Hannibal settles a hand against Will’s hip, lets it slip to frame the curve of his ass, as warm as the rest of him, and raises his chin as his own image develops. Wide shoulders held straight, his head tilted as he observes the sketch beneath him. He hums.

“My hair is greying,” he notes, with only mild dismay. “Far faster than I had anticipated it might.”

He turns a whiskey-flushed cheek against Will’s hand and nuzzles into his palm like a cat, eyes closing as Will runs his fingers through the older man’s hair.

“It could be worse,” grins Will. “You could be losing it.”

“You would leave me were I bald.”

Will just leans in to nuzzle against the warm strands, breathing him in with a smile. He would not, in fact, leave him, but he allows a moment more of playful contemplation before pulling back with a smirk.

"I think I just might have to," he sighs, playing innocent, laughs when the man grasps him tighter, delighted by him. "I like it grey," Will says, spreading a hand through it and leaning in to nose against Hannibal’s cheek, eyes down as the photo darkens to its final look. He plucks it from Hannibal's fingers and holds it out of his reach.

"I'm keeping it."

"What value does it possibly have?"

"It's intimate, and you look happy," Will tells him, smiling bright and biting his lip as Hannibal looks at him.

“Looks are often deceiving,” he teases, affecting a tone of displeasure that makes Will laugh again, lilting, lovely thing. “I was thinking only of my scotch, swallowed by a thoughtless boy whose greed is insatiable.”

He leans in and pulls Will against him all at once, a long kiss sucked against his bare chest until Will shivers from it. So distracted, Hannibal reaches to snare the camera from him and then leans back again, turning it over in his hands.

“You do have a fondness for things that are vastly older than you,” Hannibal observes, eyes crinkled.

“And things that are notoriously difficult to maintain,” his boy answers with a smile. “Things that are one of a kind.”

“Like my scotch.”

“Which you finished,” Will points out, and Hannibal finally grins a little before lifting the camera. He does not look through the viewer but rather just above it, grin shifting into a thoughtful press of his lips as he adjusts the angle in increments. Cheeks florid, eyes wide, Will bites his lip in anticipation and Hannibal snaps the picture.

Will’s eyes narrow just a bit more and he reaches for the film when it whines free.

"What will you use it for?" Will asks, amused, extending his arm to hold the picture out of reach. "I can't surrender it until I know. Will it be a memento? Something to show off? Something to dirty when you're in Europe and far away from me?" Will grins, tilts his head, asking without asking, and smiles wider when Hannibal slides his hand up Will’s extended arm to take the photo from him.

Will’s eyes had caught the light from the door, bright spots in the pupil as his cheeks pinken further as the film develops.

"The bed's still unmade," Will murmurs, pressing fingers up against his lips with a gentle look.

"It was made this morning."

"I unmade it," Will’s eyes flick up, delighted, tipsy, amused.

Hannibal sees the boy, sprawling shirtless and happy in his inebriation, rolling across the sheets and unsettling them, twisting on his back like an excited puppy. He parts his lips with his tongue and sighs, softly, at that image and the one before him, his beautiful, terrible boy, forever youthful and coy, captured with hair spilling into his eyes and lips sweetly reddened.

“Can you walk?”

Will arches into a seemingly absent curl of hips, twisting to rub shameless and bare against Hannibal’s leg. He considers the question, bites the tip of his finger, and with a broad grin shakes his head.

“You are a terror,” Hannibal sighs, leaning up to press their lips together around Will’s bitten finger. “Take the camera.”

He does, and Hannibal loops an arm beneath Will’s backside to lift him, an easy motion as he stands to carry his boy whose legs curl tight around his waist.

Will is sleepy, pressing comfortably against Hannibal’s chest as he’s carried, yelping and giggling when he’s lightly tossed to the bed, enough to bounce but not enough to hurt. He scrambles back just out of arm's reach and takes a photo of Hannibal as he is, grinning and moving closer. The image will be blurred but he doesn't care.

Will gives up the camera with a smile and shifts around to settle with his hands pressed to the bed between his legs.

"You will waste your film on me."

Will smiles and bites his lip again, shaking his head that feels lighter and heavier all at once. "Not waste. But you will, on pictures of me turning and bending for you... do you want a catalog? Of things you can do to me? Have done to me?"

“Also far from a waste,” Hannibal muses, and he settles onto his knees at the end of the bed. The whole scene is somehow sweet and sordid. Though they play together fondly now, both warmed by liquor and affection, there is something thrilling to holding a camera in hand and possessing a pornographer’s eye.

“Would that I had a picture of you when you stepped off the boat,” Hannibal adds. “When I stood over you on our first night together and watched you laugh past bloodied lips. When you first sat astride me and spoken in ancient tongues.” He watches Will curl a hand across his nose, fingers splayed over a grin, and takes a picture.

It whirrs free and Hannibal sets it aside, not reaching for the boy yet but simply savoring him as he arches and curls impatient for the older man’s touch. Will settles to bed, one hand down to grip the sheets in a loose fist, turning his head to rest his cheek on his shoulder.

"And I of you, when you pulled up the first time, and after you saw my video, and after I told you about chess, and zugzwang, and never letting you beat me." Will grins, draws his knees up and keeps them together, before letting one slide down against his calf, revealing just enough and grinning at the whirring shutter.

"And when you marked me," he adds, slipping one leg to the bed and splaying the other against the sheets, hand down to cover himself just before Hannibal takes a photo, grinning at the catch. His fingers splay downwards to stroke and he stays as he is, just watching, waiting.

The whiskey is too warm, Will's thighs too hot as Hannibal finally seeks to touch them and lets his hand hover until in eagerness Will squirms and laughs. Hannibal's fingers skim the poetry of Will's thighs, seen and unseen, his mouth seeks to taste the thin lines along that same golden skin. Tickling higher, Hannibal finds the small burn scarred dark enough still to be seen, and sighs against it in reverence.

"When you allowed me to make you mine," he breathes, before closing his lips against it. "I will - photo or no - never forget the fear in your eyes, and your willingness."

Another suck curls Will's back from the bed and the shutter snaps. It will be unfocused, a bend of light illuminated in the dark.

It will be perfect.

Will groans, hand pressed to his face, and shivers. It is so strange how many moments they have had when they think about them, about having had them, about having had them together. He wants the ones he can keep fleeting in his memory, those he will have blurred from the snapshots here.

He stays still when Hannibal holds him down, a gentle palm against his chest, and reaches for the camera, laughing when it's denied.

"I have some of you in the early mornings," Will tells him. “Leaning over the balcony railing smoking, still half asleep and relaxed."

"Stealthy boy."

Will laughs, sets his heels against the bed and shivers as he curls in the sheets, watching Hannibal above him.

"Stay still."

Will does, eyes barely open, body splayed for the man above him to see. Young and sleepy and drunk and his own. The camera clicks and Will sits up to kiss Hannibal’s smile from him.

In truth, the choices of images Will describes are admittedly unexpected. There is a sweet candor to the domesticity he seems inclined to capture, quiet moments of repose rather than the ones that Hannibal snares now. He does not imagine Will doing anything more or less with them than before - spreading himself as he does now, whimpering needy as he spreads the photographs across the bed - but it is a touching thought, that perhaps he is still happy here.

Hannibal does not show his relief in anything but the heat of his kiss, lowered once more to tickle the join of Will's inner thigh until Will spreads his hand over his face and begs him to stop, shuddering laughter.

"I will not," declares Hannibal, the scotch simmering dusky across his cheeks, in the coarse fondness of his voice. "You have been spying on me. There must be restitution."

He raises his eyes, across the sun-gold stretch of boy beneath him, whose cock curls small and taut and pink against his belly, twitching in time with Will's quickening pulse. Tongue spreading flat, Hannibal licks the length of it in a slow drag, sighing contentment as it stiffens, rising harder still, beneath his mouth.

Will shivers, bends, draws his knees higher and wider spread and relishes in the feeling of a familiar tongue against him. It feels good. Drawing his already dizzy mind to swirling colors and pretty memories. He makes a noise, sweet and warm and shivers when Hannibal pulls back with a sigh.

The camera is set away, Will fairly certain it will be back once he's spent, flushed and laughing and sleepy. He is certain that now that Hannibal knows of it, it will make a more frequent appearance.

"Again?" Will sighs, biting his lip and letting it go, lifting his head just enough to see, lips wide in a grin. "Please?"

It's a minor miracle that the boy has worked himself into such a state at all considering the sheer volume of scotch he consumed, but youth has always been a wonder to Hannibal, in this and so many other ways. He regards his boy with a narrow squint, body humming pleasantly with inebriation and arousal in equal parts, and licks his lower lip into his mouth to savor the taste of Will there.

"Spread for me, beautiful boy," murmurs Hannibal, watching as Will obeys, palms spreading over the marks that Hannibal had kissed moments before, little limbs trembling as his knees fall to the side. "There," Hannibal breathes, and though he feints a grasp for the camera, it is only that, and instead he snares Will by the hips to hitch his body higher.

"Do not move," he warns, torn for a moment between continuing this gentle play, liquor-lax bodies coiling kindly together, or to tighten his instructions, the snap of his voice, and force Will to attempt obedience for him, his intoxication no excuse for poor performance.

Hannibal settles for fitting his thumbs into the cleft of his boy's ass to open him further, and spread his tongue hot against his hole.

A cry, laughing and warm, before Will trembles and obeys, lying still as he can, enjoying the hot tongue without holding his voice. Always more vocal when inebriated, unashamed and loud, pretty, pretty boy.

His hands seek for the camera, clumsy and trembling, and set it to his chest, adjusting to see the man between his legs, to see his eyes when they lift, tongue pressing deeper into his boy and Will’s voice pulls keening as he presses the shutter, hears the photo whine free and lets the camera drop away, hands down to slip through Hannibal’s hair.

"God," he sighs, tries to hook his knees up over Hannibal’s shoulders and giggles when he’s gently slapped on the thigh to stay still. "I love you."

"Little wolf," Hannibal murmurs, eyes hooding again before he licks long again, again, again until Will's voice breaks just a pitch higher. Firm lips encircle his sensitive skin, sucking open-mouthed and hungry, and he presses hard hands against Will's hips to keep his squirming stilled.

Only when Hannibal has to breathe does he break, fingertips tracing the rise and fall of sharp hipbones to press his palms into soft thighs instead, and drag kisses against the side of his boy's length.

The question of how Will manages to arouse himself regardless of any strain or circumstances aside, the greater mystery is that they are both here at all. Desperate gleeful struggles to end the other, ceaseless plotting even as their time together increased without their notice, Will's dalliance with another life - friends and school and respectable work.

His potential was - and remains - boundless. He might well have been taken into the FBI academy, even at his age, and become a star investigator. He might have completed his degree and gone on to pursue many more, using keen intellect and sharp senses to become the master of his field. There is little that Will could not have done, had he been so moved.

Had Hannibal not moved him instead.

Will is all at once a boy whose future Hannibal has consumed wholesale and with relish, and the only boy whose growth he has fostered. Less a plucking of blooms before they could flower and fruit, and more a patient pruning to direct him as Hannibal finds most pleasing. Will has, still, flourished - strong and fast, skilled and clever - and exceeded every expectation Hannibal has had of him, to become so much more than a simple schoolboy.

Hannibal could not want for more, and whispers that he loves him before taking Will's cock deep into his mouth.

Will’s toes curl, his body shivers and he relaxes into bed, one hand up against his eyes, just pressing stars into his vision as the pleasure pulses through him. Flushed skin and dizziness and heat, panted breaths and familiar fingers drawing up and down his thighs. He thinks of how photos litter the bed, candid and blurry and simple, thinks of how he will hold these photos close, bite himself gently to hold sounds within, touch quickly to find relief.

Beautiful things.

Now also torrid things.

He wonders if there is any more painfully expensive scotch in their basement and resolves to check, resolves to share the next bottle between them until it spills down his chin and Hannibal can lick it clean.

"Let me -" he sighs, squirms, already so close - hard miraculously but entirely without control of his endurance as he usually is.

Hannibal does not immediately answer, seeks to suck and savor the sweet sounds his little wolf whimpers from up the bed. Will fights his own release until he's shaking from it, hips bucking to work himself against Hannibal's tongue, his curled lips, until their movement becomes unsteady, and he holds his hand across his mouth as if somehow by stopping his own cries and pleas he might staunch his own climax.

For no other reason than because Hannibal insists on it.

For no other reason than because Will wants to abide by him.

"Freely," Hannibal breathes, letting his heart speed. "As you wish."

Will's lip is bitten nearly white in wait for Hannibal to bend his tongue against the smooth, swollen head of his boy's cock, and it takes no more than that for Will to spill in spurts across his tongue, his lips, dripping from the older man's chin to slick against Will's groin.

The camera clicks.

"Fuck, I -"

"Freely," Hannibal murmurs again, eyes glinting amusement. "As you wish."

Without any more fuss than that, he lowers his lips to suck the pearlescent droplets from Will's taut skin, ignoring that still clinging to his mouth until he moves up the length of his Will, his glorious and unpredictable creature who watches rosy-cheeked and pleased as Hannibal tilts his head and raises a brow.

Kitten-licks and sleepy smiles and Will kisses him clean, arms up against him and heavy and warm, holding him close. Legs up around him now too, pressing up, delighted and soft and happy, entirely drunkenly happy. Nuzzles and humming little noises and Will draws his knee higher and turns them so Hannibal is on the bed, now, shifting some of the photos to slip to the floor.

“That camera will see some use now, I fear,” Will purrs, kissing Hannibal again, hand working between the older man’s legs to undo his pants and stroke him, still hard, skin to skin. “And such little things could find themselves all over the house. So easy to slip. Misplace.”

A hum, pleased, and Will grins, nose wrinkling in pleasure, before kissing against Hannibal’s neck and slipping down his body, sleepy and clumsy and laughing against him before taking Hannibal deep into his throat with a moan, determined to bring him to that place, that blissful lip-parting groan, and capture that on film as well.

Though that, he is sure, is something he will never, ever forget.


End file.
